


Liberta et Libertus

by Despoine



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Attempted Sexual Assault, Force-Sensitive Shmi Skywalker, Free Shmi 2021, Gen, Give me freedom or give me death, I cant believe I have to tag that but some people have strange inclinations, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Mother-Son Relationship, No Smut, No romanticising slavery, Not judging though, Nothing actually happens in ch1 but it was attempted, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Shmi Skywalker, Shmi Skywalker Deserves Better, Shmi has no idea of this, Slavery, Tatooine Slave Culture (Star Wars)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-13 12:13:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29401773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Despoine/pseuds/Despoine
Summary: ‘Emancipation or Martyrdom’Long before Shmi was the mother of the chosen one, she was a young woman who dreamed of freedom. Dreamed of walking among the skies. In one life she would die almost free and would rest in the arms of the son she loved more than life itself. In this life, she would taste freedom among the stars or die trying.OrShmi Skywalker takes a wrong turn and kills someone in self-defence. It changes everything.
Relationships: Anakin Skywalker & Shmi Skywalker, Shmi Skywalker & Freedom
Comments: 2
Kudos: 42





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> TW include: Slavery, Death, Attempted Sexual Assault, Sexual Themes (no smut, however), Explicit Violence, Harassment and Past Trauma
> 
> Stay safe and feel free to ask me to add anything that triggers you.  
> It's not a super dark fic, but as with anything that deals with slavery it can be triggering.

**Ch.1**

Shmi had not meant to be out so late. Truly, she had not meant to be out at all. But Anakin needed to be fed and it was anywhere else the times of dusk and dawn would be the best times to avoid the blazing heat of the twin suns, so it would have made sense to make what little purchases she could afford in those hours. However, if Watto had let her, she would have braved the suns as she had all her life, but the scrap shop had had a busy month and there was no time for a slave to do anything but work. Never mind the fact that a slave also must eat. That and a son to feed with what little she has. Never mind that Tatooine was even more dangerous when the suns set.

No one would ever call Watto a kind master. If such a thing existed Shmi had yet to see it. A kind master was a misnomer because a _kind_ master would never be a master at all. Gardulla the Hutt had been worse, so as masters go Shmi supposed Watto was not as evil as some. He rarely raised his hand to her, rarely sent an electrical current tearing through her bones through the chip buried in her neck when he was angry. Rarely, but not never. No, Watto was not the krayt dragon that Gardulla had been. Nor the sandstorm her first master had been. Watto was just more likely to starve his slaves out of ignorance of their need to _eat_ , because why should they need to eat when they could _work?_

The galaxy would be a nicer place if those with power realised that slaves were not droids. But then, people were more likely to look after investments that could not be so easily replaced. Less likely to break a droid than a person.

The galaxy would be a nicer place if people didn’t own slaves.

The galaxy would be a nicer place if people didn’t own people.

So, if Shmi could not brave the suns of Tatooine to purchase the food she needed to feed herself and her son because she needed to work, she would have to brave the hours of dusk. Of course, that would have been an easier feat if she had been allowed to leave the shop _before_ the beginning hours of dusk.

So, an hour later there Shmi was, back laden down with provisions, rushing home before the last hint of light from the twin suns fully disappeared. The night was falling and it was as dangerous as day on Tatooine. More so because sentients in Mos Espa would embrace the chaos of nightfall. The trio of moons the only witnesses to their revelry.

“HEY! THAT’S NOT FAIR!”

Noise permeated her thoughts and was almost driven unnoticeable by the sudden pounding of her heart in her ears. A group of large angry-looking men stumbled out of a casino barely 20 paces in front of her, shouting about something or other and looking incredibly intoxicated. The only relatively safe pathway suddenly blocked by the increasingly enraged men left Shmi with a decision to make. She could of course attempt to backtrack but to her knowledge, there was no other direct route that would let her go home before the trio of moons had made their ascent and night would fall completely. Another option was to duck into the shadows and hope the men did not notice her and decide to take their frustrations out on her. Unlikely. Women were not treated well here, and slave women were not treated as sentient at all. Finding slave women dead was not uncommon on Tatooine. Not finding them was even more common.

Perhaps a more courageous individual would walk straight past the men, head held high and deal with any possibility that comes their way. But Shmi would never consider herself particularly brave, nor was she stupid. Courageous often meant the same thing to slaves. Bold slaves were dead slaves. Name a slave who was stupid enough to hold their head high, then name how they died.

Waiting in the shadows was not truly an option either as the men were likely to take their time, probably blasting something or someone if their increasingly loud threats were to be believed. Besides, the longer she takes to return the more dangers she is likely to face, a pack on your back at night is a sign asking to be robbed on Tatooine. Not to mention groups like the men ahead of her and worse would seem to multiply, crawling out of the dark like massiffs from their caves.

As her eyes scanned her options hurriedly from the shadows, another route presented itself. An alleyway. Normally not one to take such risks, it seemed to be the safest immediate option available. Ironic considering her earlier thoughts of dead slave women usually found in, well, alleyways. Her intuition warned her that this was a danger she should not chance, but it also seemed to scream at her to _get away from the men. Now._

So, into the alleyway, she went. Not truly knowing if she would regret it or not.

Grasping at the Japor snippet Anakin gave her Shmi breathed out a tiny prayer to the powers that be, that she would return to her son safely. ‘Please, don’t let this be a mistake’ she thought desperately, eyes scanning every shadow wildly.

The alleyway was longer than she had initially thought, or perhaps it was a perfectly short alley, and it was simply that her perception of it was so skewed that it seemed never-ending. Fear has a funny way of distorting how we view our surroundings and Shmi was feeling that at full force. Every fibre of her being was telling her that this was a mistake, her very cells were shouting ‘don’t go this way, you moron!’ Or so it felt to her at that moment.

“Don’t be insane Shmi, it’s not that bad. You’re safe.” It took a second to realise she had even muttered the reassurance out loud, but once she registered what she told herself she attempted to take heart in it. Her intuition was not often wrong about these things, true. But the same intuition told her that this was the lesser of two evils and she could not let fear cloud her awareness. ‘Be smart Shmi, eyes open’. Whether the voice in her mind sounded like her own at that moment mattered little. One breath in. One breath out. Eyes open. Shmi kept walking.

Dramatic irony has a way of presenting itself as something funny to a viewer but is rarely ever a positive to the one experiencing it. It is when our eyes are finally open that we are most often blindsided. Aware but not prepared. When Shmi was a child a slave dancer by the name of Lei’lah would stop by some nights to entertain the slave children. She was a gifted performer for all that she had not chosen the profession and while little more than a child herself had seemed so grown and impressive to the child version of Shmi.

Lei’lah never spoke of her life before being enslaved, not that anyone did, but it was clear to any sentient with two eyes (and those with any other number of eyes, she corrected mentally) that she had at least some kind of education. She would tell them of words such as ‘irony’ and then _show_ them the words through her shows. She would take the children’s toys and use them as puppets. Cries of ‘he’s behind you’ and laughs would follow these performances each time they were had.

Then they suddenly stopped. Less jaded adults whispered that the girl had likely freed herself, making her become a hero to the impressionable younglings. More jaded adults would grumble that she was gone and not to ask questions. Shmi realised now that there were several ways to _free_ oneself as a slave but rarely, did they ever actually have someone leaving their master. Alive.

Nonetheless, it was during those performances that Shmi learned the meaning of irony and it was an echo of children crying out to Lei’lah to _turn around_ that saved her.

Unknowing of why she did it or truly how she managed so quickly, Shmi ducked down and sent her eyes skywards. It was then that she saw shadowed hands grab at the air where she last stood.

Pushing up quickly and diving forward she attempted to run from her mysterious assailant.

The same hands grabbed onto her shoulders and pulled her to face the phantom. Her eyes spun with her body and locked onto the frame of her attacker. It was no phantom from the tales of her childhood, it was worse, it was a man.

The man who stood before her was tall, his skin perspiring from exertion and his face twisted into an awful grin. For a moment it was as if time stood still and she saw every detail of the man, from the shaggy hair on his head to the ragged boots on his feet. He appeared human, though the look in his eyes had her questioning whether he was, in fact, the phantom she had thought he was earlier. A childhood story of a skinwalker or monsters that wear the guise of fellow sentients to lead the unaware astray would have come to mind if she were not so hyper-focused on cataloguing every last detail of the man.

He did not speak to her, just raised a fist towards her and soon she was flying towards the ground. It was almost as if it was a slow-motion holo and she was viewing it outside of her body, unable to react despite seeing it coming long before it did. Then for a moment, all she saw was stars. Not the stars that were now above her beside the three moons high in the sky, but tiny supernovas bursting around her eyes as her head and body bounced onto the sand dusted stone.

The monster worse than any animal was grabbing at her while she was stunned and began pulling at her clothes. Pulling and tearing at her skirts as it bent over her and attempted to disrobe her. Putrid breath filled her nose with the scent of rot, and she could see more than hear the cruel taunts of “slut” and “whore” over the ringing in her ears. Shmi was frozen at that moment, no longer as winded but not fighting back as he grabbed at her.

_Slaves don’t fight back._

Her pack was digging into her spine. Sharply edges bruising her skin.

_Slaves don’t fight back._

Her food would probably be ruined, squished into the fabric.

_Slaves don’t fight back._

The night air was cold against bare skin.

_Slaves don’t fight back._

Sand was in her hair; it would take forever to brush it out.

_Slaves don’t fight back._

The stars are so pretty, aren’t they Anakin?

_Slaves. Don’t. Fight. Back._

One second Shmi Skywalker was laying there frozen beneath a monster who was tangling itself in her skirts. The next second, for the first time in her entire life Shmi Skywalker began to fight back. It was all instinct at first and she did not even realise she was doing it; she just began to buck and writhe in an attempt to push him off of her. Hands were grasping around her for a weapon. No weapons. _Push, push, push._ Suddenly, he was pushed back with a loud grunt that she couldn’t hear over someone screaming. Shmi dove at him began pounding at his arms in pure instinct and the screaming was getting louder now.

Shmi will never be sure how she managed it, for the man was much larger than her but soon she was atop him. The monster fought her at every turn, grabbing at her hair and punching her in the stomach, mouthing words she couldn’t hear over the screaming.

A little girl was once shown how to throw a punch by her father before he was sold away, a skill she never used but never forgot. That little girl threw the hardest punch of her life and Shmi would swear that she broke her entire hand in that punch, but the man finally stopped fighting for a second. The screaming, she realised then, was her all along. It was quiet for what seemed like an eternity and everything felt so calm.

 _Kill him_.

The anger started to fill her then. The man, the human _kriffing_ man, attempted to violate her. Like he had the right! As if he owned her like so many had owned her before. All slaves felt anger at being enslaved, no matter how well they hid it, but nothing burns more than the idea that someone other than the person who _kriffing owns_ them would dare to lay their hands on them and take. It was not a conscious decision, not truly, but at that moment Shmi decided to take something back from them. Her hands wrapped around his neck as he flailed at her.

It did not take long.

She pressed her hands on his throat and felt the rage of her ancestors heating her blood. She pushed down as hard as she could, and it became easier the redder her vision got. She pressed down harder and harder and then- Oh. His neck was bent at an unnatural angle and his face a shade of puce.

A clinical part of her mind told her that he died somewhere between the choking and the neck-snapping, likely a combination of the two. She killed him. The proof was in front of her and yet some barely aware part of her mind still rebelled against it. A murderer. Monster.

Yet still, another part of her mind revelled in it. From slave to slayer. A slave cannot rebel. Cannot fight back, and yet. Yet. She did. Shmi Skywalker killed a man and her head had not been separated from her neck. In fact, she felt oddly whole. Not free, not exactly, but she felt a hint of it, nonetheless.

If every slave did the same, would they all be free? Would some other master come and take the place of the one they killed? Would they be struck down where they stood? Yes? No?

As she contemplated such questions, she was struck with the realisation that she was standing above the body of the man. A slave in front of a corpse.

She flees.

Shmi attempted to dodge any people and hide in the shadows. Tatooine never truly slept, it was true that it is easier to travel in the small periods of dusk and dawn since the nights would freeze your bones and the days burn you your skin, but people were awake at all hours. She slipped past a Toydarian who was haggling with an elderly human woman over a cooked womp rat at a street stand and was almost seen by a Twi’lek slave girl _servicing_ a ‘patron’ of her masters in the corner between a mechanics and a scrap shop. The patron was unlikely to look up anytime soon.

Slaves are not safe after dark, as the moments before had already proven to her. Shmi would have to be careful to not be seen, but then perhaps it would not change anything if she were. Slaves were never truly seen. They slip into the background and no-one notices them. They learn to hide, or they die. It is a fact her ancestors drilled into her brain; the skill is carved into her bones. Do nothing to be seen.

Which clearly would not be achieved by running. ‘Stupid, stupid woman!’ Shmi reprimanded in her head. She slowed her pace and adopted the posture she had used since before she knew how to walk. Downtrodden. Beaten. Unseen. Gardulla had not been her first master, she was born as property and had never tasted freedom. She is _careful._ This never happened. It was a mistake.

It was not.

Shmi walked unseen in the edge of the shadows, not hiding but unlikely to be seen all the same. She was almost home. Home? It was not truly home but while it may be a hovel to those more privileged, it was hers as much as anything can belong to slave. So perhaps not home, but it was as close to home as a slave can have.

Not truly home at all then.

Tomorrow she would awaken and fulfil the tasks assigned to her. She would feed Anakin and perhaps later in the day there would be enough for her, the food in her pack was likely mostly still edible and if she missed breakfast again then she could spare enough for lunch if Anakin wasn’t too hungry. He was barely six and yet he was already eating her out of house and home. Her growing boy deserved all the food she could spare and while he was empathetic enough to try and conserve food for his mother Shmi had mastered the tricks of all slave mothers. The way to pretend without lying. Telling Anakin that he already filled her to full of love, her stomach could wait, and she would be fuller for watching him eat.

Most days that would help, it was almost enough to fill the emptiness in her stomach and could almost stop the hunger gnawing at her bones. Almost.

Murders happened every day on Tatooine, no-one would investigate this one. The man had not been anyone important. She would forget him.

She _wil_ l never forget him. She fought back. She won.

The fear in his eyes as the slave woman he thought he could violate crushed his windpipe and snapped his neck will strengthen her resolve for years to come.

Perhaps in most lives, Shmi would be little more than a slave woman who died a painful death after living a more painful life. Perhaps in some lives, she would be ‘freed’ by a well-meaning person who would buy her and never give her an order but owning her all the same. In this life, Shmi Skywalker would fight. In this life, she will be free.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Discussions of physical abuse and sex work

**Ch.2**

The day after her night in the alleyway was normal. Or as normal as any day for a slave with a six-year-old son working for a Toydarien on a sand planet with two suns could be. Her day began at dawn as it always had and Shmi felt oddly well-rested despite her scant amount of sleep.

The reason for that quickly became apparent when she looked down at her golden-haired miracle, tangled in their sheets and burrowed into her side. She brushed her fingers through his bedraggled locks and watched him lean into her gentle cafuné. They slept much better together. Anakin often had bad dreams and trusted her to keep him safe from them. Her little miracle. He did not believe there was a monster she could not save him from.

She would not hesitate to admit that him sleeping next to him brought her the same comfort. Anakin had a sort of aura around him. Others would notice it too, some sentients more than others but the boy had a way of endearing himself to those around him. Anakin was her heart, and some might think her mad for saying so, but she knew they were connected. Other slaves would whisper about her in the cramped sleeping quarters as she would press her hand against her stomach and swear, he was reaching back. Perhaps it was madness or simply mothers’ intuition, but she could almost always tell what he was feeling and if he was safe. No matter the distance and no matter what he was doing she could always feel him. Like his heart was beating beside her own in her chest. The twin suns of Tatooine. Anakin’s brightness outshone her own but while others might have been blinded by it, she refused to wilt and was bathed in his light like a kryat dragon on the shifting sands.

Ever since his conception she had never felt alone. Anakin felt so strongly, so bright and filled with so much sadness too. He did not understand the nuances of their life and so strongly wanted to help other people. Shmi could not say she felt the way he did, too downtrodden after a life of hardships but she encouraged his goodness and he flourished under the attention from her.

She also saw the darkness in him. His anger at her pain felt almost as strong as her own. His fear and fury when Watto would electrocute her would even eclipse her own and her gentle boy’s light would turn from a radiant white to a swirling mixture of blue and red.

For all that Shmi could feel Anakin’s feelings, she knew he could feel her own too. It was as if they were the feedback loop in a droid’s circuitry, essential but with the possibility to overwhelm. Anakin felt more _strongly_ than her, so she had to learn to pull all her hurts deep inside of her and cover them in her love for him. Hiding them from Anakin completely was almost impossible, he could sense every aspect of her if he tried but masking them was possible. With conscious effort. No-one could lie to Anakin, not even Shmi, something which she would like to think he got from her. A skill honed by years of false promises, or perhaps simply something innate to the Skywalkers.

But if Anakin could feel what she felt as strongly, or perhaps more so, as she did… What had he felt that night?

Her babe was asleep when she returned, stumbling in through their door and dropping her pack onto the floor. She had scrambled to the kitchen and had all but slammed the items into her dilapidated cupboards. Most of her food had been salvageable as she had hoped but she decided to deal with what was not in the morning. Surprisingly, the noise had not seemed to wake Anakin.

But when she had slipped into the bedroom, there he was on her poonten grass mattress in a foetal position and her baby was shivering ever so slightly. Shmi had not questioned it but… Perhaps it was not just a bad dream.

If Anakin knew what she had done, or what had almost happened to her then-

She would not have been able to bear it, her heart felt like it was being torn from her chest at the very idea. Yet she knew somewhere deep inside of her that if something similar happened to Anakin then she would have _known._ So, he must know, on some level at least, that _something_ happened last night.

‘He can never find out what, exactly.’ Shmi’s thought was not a particularly reassuring one.

Pushing past her inner turmoil, she kept her fingers running through her miracle’s hair.

“Wake up Ani. Wake up and help me make breakfast.” So perhaps she was not averse to bribery. For all her son was gifted in most things he tried, he lacked any skill in the culinary arts, and they had little enough food to allow for his experiments. However, he loved it and she had had a rough night. By the Stars’ she would spoil her son as much as she was able.

Her voice seemed to be all he needed to awaken. Sparkling blue eyes opened slowly and Shmi was almost overwhelmed with a radiant _joy-happy-love_ being pushed at her. All accompanied by her boy’s beautiful smile.

All she needed to make her feel whole was-

“Mom!”.

Ah, and there it was.

* * *

The days following the incident followed similarly to normal life for Shmi. No-one came for Shmi with chains to drag her in front of the Hutt council, nor did her chip simply explode at random.

Shmi was thankful for the normality. Not exactly comfortable and perhaps a little more paranoid, but the increased awareness would suit life on Tatooine just as well. If anything, she began to resemble the general populace a little more.

If Anakin clung to her skirts just a little harder and left her side only at the demands of Watto, then she ignored it. She was not ready to discuss what happened with her son. Anakin certainly was not ready to hear it. But Shmi knew that the time to tell him _something_ was rapidly approaching. Watto’s temper with the boy was beginning to shorten and Anakin seemed to have a nightmare almost every night since. The time was coming to talk to him, just not yet. Shmi needed time to _think_.

The days did not change much, it was true. But something inside Shmi had changed, she just needed to figure out what exactly it was.

Whereas before when someone would brush her aside as little more than sand beneath their shoe, Shmi would simply be content that they did not do worse. Now she felt a tang of something acrid beneath her tongue at not being seen at all.

Before the alleyway, Shmi would answer every one of Watto’s commands instantly, without delay. Now she spent a second looking at the Toydarian before walking, not scurrying, to do his bidding. Every time she took that second Shmi saw him completely. She found him wanting.

Shmi no longer flinched at every noise. No longer did she avert her eyes instantly, though she was intelligent enough to never look long enough to be seen as a challenge.

It was not that she felt particularly brave after taking a life. Bravery was synonymous with idiocy on Tatooine, for all that her son seemed to be bathed in courage, Shmi was not brave.

No. Shmi was _angry._

No sentient being wanted to be enslaved. No-one deserved to be a slave for the scum of the galaxy. Shmi had been born with back bent, bowed, and broken. Shmi was born to never expect more. Shmi hoped at times, but never truly did she believe that she was more than she was.

Shmi was starting to believe.

It was gradual and it was only the beginning for Shmi, but it was a spark in the tinder of what was left of her spirit.

Once her highest hope was of a master who was not cruel to buy her. Then, she hoped that the dreams she had each night of Anakin becoming free, standing among the stars with his bright light outshining every star, would become true.

Now, Shmi did not know exactly what she hoped for. She only knew that she hoped for more.

* * *

It was at the market a few weeks later that the next change began for Shmi.

Shmi was standing at Jira’s stall haggling over a bruised pallie fruit, with Anakin still grasping at her skirts grinning at Jira. Jira was an older woman with bright green eyes who looked at Anakin as if he hung Ghomrassen, Guermessa and Chenini among the stars himself. Perhaps it was a little cruel of Shmi to use Anakin in such a way, but the boy had a way of charming many of the vendors in Mos Espa.

Besides Jira was poor, true, but not _slave poor_. Shmi would use the gift of her liking Anakin as much as she could, and she liked Jira even more for the way she saw her miracle.

“Now Jira, this pallie is not going to survive the trip home with how bruised it is. Surely it’s worth half the normal credits.”. Haggling and negotiation were commonplace in Mos Espa’s markets, and both were skills that Shmi had mastered. Out of necessity perhaps but she was skilled at them all the same and she enjoyed the challenge.

“Half the credits? It’s bruised but not squashed Shmi, so perhaps-” the second before Jira could name a price Shmi moved her hip just a little and Anakin’s face was shown just a little more from behind her skirts. Jira felt her heart melt in her chest at the way the boy was staring up at her with adoring eyes. “Fine, half the price. Just give little Anakin an extra big piece from his Auntie Jira, now eh?”

“Woah! Thank you, Auntie Jira! You’re the best-” Whatever it was that Anakin was about to say was cut off by the sound of harsh barking.

<<You worthless bantha poodoo! What kind of earnings are these!? Do you want to be punished!?>> the furious voice shouted in Huttese.

The intelligent thing to do would be to keep her head down and not get involved. What she would have done just a few weeks ago would be to keep her eyes firmly on Jira, ignoring the rage just metres behind her. Ignoring the _help-save-protect_ pouring out from Anakin. Ignoring the small hint of _fear-shame-helpme_ from the sentient being shouted at.

On that day, however, perhaps Shmi was feeling a little more reckless than usual. Perhaps it was the weight of Anakin’s sky-blue eyes looking at her as if she could save someone, dragging her down and asking ‘why? Mom, you can do anything’. Perhaps something in Shmi changed when she broke the neck of a man and saved herself. Or more likely, it was a combination of those and many other factors.

On that day, Shmi decided to do something.

Shmi pushed Anakin towards Jira, looking her deep in the eyes until Jira nodded back and put her hand firmly on Anakin’s shoulder. With a “stay with Auntie”, Shmi was moving closer to the fray. Breathing in Anakin’s _desperation_ to be at her side and breathing out a clumsy sense of _momhelpsaveloveyou._

Shmi slipped past a Zabrak man, through a group of intimidating looking Weequay and finally to the front of the gathering crowd. The scene that stood before her was an intimately familiar one to Shmi. A RutianTwi’lek girl bowed and scraped at the feet of her Dug master, who she immediately recognised as Sebulba.

Sebulba was bad news on a planet full of it. He was the new and upcoming Boonta Eve podracing champion and despite not having been on the planet for very long he had already made his name known. It was true his immediate fame came from his winning. Though he was already a renowned cheater, unsurprising as that seemed to be a theme of the races. His infamy, however, came from his cruelty and his acquisition of several pleasure slaves. Sebulba was a flesh-peddler.

The sex industry of Tatooine, if it could even be called such, was a dark blight on the planet. Composed almost exclusively of slaves, it was an unspoken attraction to bring the scum of the galaxy coming to the planet. Alongside the spice and slave trade, it a large part of why the Hutt’s drew wealth from the planet.

Shmi felt empathy for the pleasure slaves, assisting them where she could by bringing food to them in Slave Quarter Row and helping to aid their ills. Loss of bodily autonomy was well-known by her people, but none knew it so intimately as those sold for the pleasure of others. It was an ill she knew herself and one that cut deeper than any other. A dark part of her saw Anakin in these beautiful sentients. Shmi was not alone in thinking her son was striking, other people commented on it enough to send fear flooding into her heart. His age would not save him, she knew that many were sold at his age and younger, for the most deprived sleemo of the galaxy to destroy. Shmi would die before she would allow it. If Watto even hinted at allowing the idea she would destroy him in ways he couldn’t imagine. Then she would kill him. But would that even save Anakin?

Taking a longer look at the girl begging beneath Sebulba, she realised she recognised her. The girl was one of the Gella twins, though she knew not which one. Shmi herself had been there when the girls had first arrived at Slave Quarter Row and had offered them some lamta and purple tubers to eat when they had nothing else.

Shmi also realised she recognised the girl, from an event more recently. She had run past the girl after the alleyway. A sudden dilemma appeared. If did nothing, then she would not be able to influence the situation. She could encourage Sebulba to punish her, the man was evil enough to be excited by the idea of performing for a crowd. Then it was possible he would strike just a little too hard and there would be one less witness…

Or she could do the right thing and do something, anything to help the girl.

Shmi pushed back whatever evil would dare influence her to even think of such a thing and began to _think_.

Sebulba began to shout louder and Shmi realised there was no more time to think.

<<Oh my! Are you Sebulba the pod racing legend!?>> Shmi rushed forward shouting in Huttese with gleaming eyes and an excited look on her face. ‘Keep going, distract him!’

She continued, <<I’m such a hu-uge fan! You’re beyond incredible!>> Shmi dragged out the words, panting, chest heaving as if she was truly excited at the thought of being in his presence.

Sebulba made a disgusted noise at being interrupted but dragged his eyes away from the cowering Twi’lek girl in front of him to look at his apparent fan.

<<Stars’ end! It is you! Look! Everyone look! Can I have your autograph!?>>. For the first time in her life, Shmi transformed from quiet slave woman to an excited but slightly airheaded fan barely breathing in front of her idol. ‘Look at him, look _! Look!_ ’ she all but commands in her mind, and to her surprise people do. With an almost glassy look in their eyes, the crowd suddenly converges on Sebulba overwhelming him with attention, cries for his autograph and chants of his name.

Confused but pleased at how well it worked, Shmi takes the chance to drag the Gella girl away from the crush and quickly looks over her. “Hello there, what’s your name?” she asks in Basic, careful however to not mention her name despite social convention. This girl may have seen her that night and the last thing she needed was to be memorable.

“H-hello. I’m Tann” the girl stuttered and peered at Shmi with an overwhelmed look in her eye, her hands shakily adjusting the collar where it dug into her throat as Shmi had dragged her by her clothes.

Shmi looked at her empathetically and put her hands towards the girl, carefully not touching her until the girl reached out with her hand. Shmi squeezed her hand comfortingly and tried to show all the warmth to the girl she could with her face. By the Stars was the girl young. Not yet an adult, barely pushing off the years of childhood and already looking so broken in her eyes.

“I’m sorry I can’t do more for you.” Shmi then carefully pulled out a root from where it was hidden in her belt, passing it into the girl’s hand. “Chew it for the pain later. It will help.”

Then Shmi left. The girl- Tann staring off at her as she blended back into the throng of people walking through the market.

It would not stop the punishment awaiting the girl. But Shmi knew the shame of a public beating all too well, the weight of eyes staring into your soul but not truly seeing you. All the ones watching but not helping. Perhaps Sebulba would wait until they were in private, or at least somewhere with fewer eyes than the market, to exact his unfair punishment. Shmi could only hope that the flattery put him in a better mood, so his hits would be that fraction lighter. Twi’lek skin bruises so easily, the girl would be thankful for any small respite she could get.

From experience, Shmi knew how true that was. The scars on her back _burned_ hot at the thought.

It took moments to realise that Anakin had gotten past Jira’s durasteel grip and was staring at her with a mixture of adoration and surprise colouring his features.

He gaped for a moment and then said: “wow Mom! That was wizard!”.

Then softly he added, “Do actually like Sebulba?”.

Shmi just laughed, then took his hand and walked to a stand that sold polta beans at a reasonable price.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shmi is starting to change, little by little she's becoming aware of her own power.  
> Hopefully, the pacing on this is beginning to work itself out. I never intended for this to become a long fic but I'm starting to think it's going to end up going for quite a while.
> 
> Thinking of ways to phrase things that make sense in the Star Wars universe is hard, it's quite fun though.  
> Love you all.
> 
> XO

**Author's Note:**

> I've never published a fanfiction I've written, but I was encouraged by my best friend to do so as a sort of requiem for my love of Shmi. I always want more Shmi content.  
> I have a general plotline of where I want to go with this, but I've never written a multi-chapter piece so I've no frame of reference as to how long it will take me. I will update at some point, however.
> 
> Feel free to critique or suggest away, I'm only a little fragile!  
> Edited by my new bestie Grammarly, she's a skinny legend whom I love more than anyone in my life.
> 
> XO


End file.
